


The City of Crows

by Taz



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:04:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taz/pseuds/Taz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Less than twenty-four hours after learning that Holmes was lying ill at the Hotel Dulong in Lyons, watched the dawn break over the misty vineyards of Burgundy from the windows of the PLM Express from Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_On referring to my notes, I see that it was the 14th of April that I received a telegram from Lyons…*_

 

The weather had been cold and variable that spring, and that particular April day found all of London locked in one those impenetrable yellow fogs that disincline one to brave the streets. My injured leg had been aching more than usual and I had spent the day curled up in a chair by a cozy fire with a cup of tea and the day’s paper in my lap.

My friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, had been for two months on the continent, investigating the question of the Netherlands-Sumatra Company, and I had just finished reading the headlines trumpeting his successful resolution to that case when the telegram arrived. I confess I had been looking forward to hearing of his imminent arrival back at Baker Street. Instead, it bore word from an Inspector Bertrand of the Sûreté that Holmes was lying ill at the Hotel Dulong in Lyons. This dreadful news sent me to pack my kit and Billy running to the corner to secure the cab that shortly delivered me to Victoria Station.

A military career, even so brief a one as mine, will teach the art of quick and efficient travel; less than twenty-four hours after learning that Holmes was lying ill at the Hotel Dulong in Lyons, I saw the dawn break over the misty vineyards of Burgundy from the windows of the PLM Express from Paris.

As the train moved through the rolling hills of the wine country I perceived in the richer palette of the landscape that spring was far advanced in the south and, despite my great anxiety, welcomed this evidence of the revitalizing warmth of the sun.

My train pulled into the _Gare de Lyon-Perrache_ in the late morning. I was fortunate, in securing a cab whose driver spoke English and soon we were rattling over the Saone and clattering through the narrow cobbled streets of the Vieux Lyon, the oldest part of that ancient city. Upon arriving at the Hotel Dulong and inquiring after Holmes, I was shown to his room by a concierge whose broken English and Gallic enthusiasm made him nearly as incomprehensible to me as my school-boy French must have been to him. This hardly inhibited the gentleman, however, from expressing himself as I signed the register and we rode the lift to the fourth floor. Occasionally he cried “Formidable!” from which I gathered he was fully aware of Holmes’ astonishing achievement in outmaneuvering the most accomplished swindler in Europe.

The man chattered continuously as he led me down the hall until, stopping at a door which bore the numerals 401 in polished brass, he raised his hand to knock. There he hesitated, and I was able, at last, to interject, “Mais oui, meisuier.”

He turned, then, and cried, “Mais non, monsieur!” and proceeded to babble at me with such passion and fervor, and at such a rate of speed, that the only word I could make out was _fou_.

“Slow down, man,” said I, “I can’t understand you.”

He then looked me straight in the eye and speaking, in the purest form of that English which instantly identifies one born within the sound of Bow Bells: “It’s only on account of Mister ‘Omes that me mother ain’t lost ‘er pension, but I’m tellin’ yer the man’s bonkers!”

I confess this left me staring in stupefaction, whereupon he shoved into my hands a lacquer tray with a packet of telegrams on it and a key. “’ere’s the room and ’ere’s the key, sir, and good luck t’yer.”

The tray slipped to the floor, although I managed to clutch the packet to my breast. “What on earth…!” said I, but he was already hurrying away down the hall. I was forced to remind myself that Cockneys, like the French, are an excitable people, as I turned and rapped brightly on the door. “Holmes!” I called. “It’s Watson.”

There was no reply; I took hold of the knob and turned it. The door was not locked. It opened with an odd rustling sound, and as it did I beheld what would have been a snug sitting-room, if every available surface—desk, table, chair and settee—hadn’t been piled high to overflowing with ledgers and stacks of paper! The French windows had been shuttered against the sun but I could see plates of food, untouched for days, abandoned on top of the stacks, making a feast for flies. In front of me, the floor was ankle deep in a heap of paper, the source of the rustling sound—telegrams, there must have been hundreds, just like the packet clutched in my hands!

“Holmes?” I called.

“Put it down and go away,” a feeble, rasping voice replied from the adjoining bedroom.

The door of this room was ajar and I hurried across. Within all was gloom as the windows were shuttered in here, as well, but it seemed to be as comfortably appointed as the sitting room. I saw a bed and nightstand, a washstand with pitcher and bowl, and a chest of drawers with a lamp upon it. Stretched upon the bed lay my dear friend with an arm flung across his eyes.

“Holmes,” I cried, approaching the bedside.

“Watson?” Holmes lifted his arm and peered at me in confusion. “Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?”

“You sent for me.”

“Did I? Perhaps I did.”

Struck by the pallor of his skin and gaunt, wasted visage, I demanded to know: “My god, man! When was the last time you ate something?”

“I don’t remember. Is there any water?” There was a carafe on the nightstand. I reached for it and in my agitation and concern, the bundle of telegrams slipped from my hand. “More of the damn things,” Holmes groaned, letting his arm fall back to block out the sight of them. “Take them away.”

I bent to retrieve the telegrams and happened to perceive a flat tortoiseshell case, about 8 inches in length. It was lying just beneath the edge of the bed. I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket, as Holmes said, peevishly, “Go away. Leave me alone.”

 “My dear, fellow I will not!” All of my professional instincts were aroused. I strode to the window and flung the shutters wide. This provoked the most dreadful shriek from the man in the bed. “Watson! You’re torturing a sick man!”

“Sir?” someone called from the other room. It was porter delivering my bag.

I ran out and communicated to him the urgency of the need for someone to bring a bottle of wine and a bottle of mineral water. This he promised to do, but when I attempted to draw his attention to the condition of the rooms, he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders; apparently none of the Dulong’s chambermaids were willing any longer to beard the lion in his den. In truth, given the force of Holmes’ personality, I could hardly blame them; I was forced to promise a substantial emolument if the rooms were cleaned that afternoon, and, further, that I would be there to intercede with Holmes, should he object.

The porter then left to carry out this program and, shortly, the requested bottle of wine arrived. It was an excellent vintage and, as I had taken no refreshment since breakfasting on the train that morning, I drank a glass myself. So fortified, I returned to Holmes’ bedside and informed him of my arrangements, and of my intention to carry him back to England as quickly as possible. To my surprise, he merely grunted. It was then that I realized this collapse was something other than the usual physical manifestation of that black depression and concomitant lethargy with which my friend was too often consumed upon the termination of a case.

My fears were confirmed when a bustling began to be heard in the sitting room. In similar past circumstances, I have heard Holmes raise violent objection to his paperwork being disturbed; this time he said not a word, and I began to fear the irretrievable destruction of his iron constitution, under the strain of a case that had baffled the police of three countries.

Observing the dry and crusted lips, and the stained and dingy nightshirt in which Holmes was dressed, I said, “Let make you more comfortable, old friend,” and slipped my arm under his shoulder. “Sit up.” 

I cannot tell you how appalled I was at feeling the sharpness of the bones beneath the skin and the way he leaned upon my strength as I helped him to his feet and supported him to a chair.

I will say, now that there was someone to protect them from the keen edge of Holmes’ tongue, the Dulong’s staff acted with commendable promptness; it was not long before the sitting room had been aired and put in order. My part was to perform the functions of a nurse, moving a dressing screen to shield Holmes and, while the maids changed the bed, tenderly washing his face and hands, easing a clean nightshirt over his head and a dressing gown around his shoulders. I made him drink a glass of wine.

Holmes’ weakened state was evident in that he only once muttered _Nanny_ , under his breath, as I helped him to climb between the fresh sheets. Although any exertion was clearly exhausting, I found this evidence of his spirit unaccountably cheering; he fell asleep even as I was tucking the coverlet about him.

I was then able to have a wash myself and to consider my best course of procedure. Securing Holmes health was the utmost of my concerns. To this end, I rang for the porter and requested that a day bed should be set up in the sitting room, upon which I proposed to sleep.

Outside the French windows was a gallery with an ornamental railing. There were chairs and a small iron table and pots containing flowering plants, although these seemed to have been overlong in need of water. As it overlooked the street and as there was no other place to sit where I might not disturb any of Holmes’ papers, it was there I sat to take the tortoiseshell case from my pocket to examine. Inside, it was no surprise to find, nestled in the green velvet lining was a hypodermic needle whose wicked steel shaft showed signs of recent use. _You know my methods Watson._ As I had gently sponged his hands, I had indeed observed tiny dabs of sticking plaster dotting the flesh of his arms. The only question in my mind was where was the bottle of cocaine solution hidden? And was there any remaining in the bottle?

Absorbed in these reflections, I almost missed the signs that should have alerted me that Holmes was awake. Fortunately some small sound did rouse me from my reverie and I discovered him leaning over the side of the bed and searching for something beneath the frame.

“You needn’t fatigue yourself,” said I. “I’ve already found it.”

Holmes sank back against the pillows. “So it was you. I thought I was dreaming.” He scowled. “I suppose you’ve let them make a jumble of my records? They must be turned over to the authorities.”

“I trust not,” said I, drawing a chair to his bedside. “I instructed them merely to remove the plates of stale food, tidy up and remove the clutter from the floor.” I sat down and tipped his chin up and looked into his eyes. I was pleased to observe that his pupils were less dilated than before. I poured some mineral water into a glass and, in consideration of his condition, held it for him as he drank. “Was it necessary to get yourself into this deplorable condition?” I said.

“It was unavoidable,” Holmes sighed. “You cannot begin to know how difficult this case has been, Watson. Toward the end I never worked less than fifteen hours a day.”

“I can’t regret the outcome of your labor,” said I, “only that you have worked yourself into a state of collapse.” As I spoke, I felt Holmes’ forehead and took his pulse. His skin was cool and his pulse thready and erratic. “The mother of the concierge of this very hotel would have been one of that man’s victims,” I said. “As it is, she is spared poverty and he is your ardent fan.”

“As it is, I would prefer to be in Baker Street.” Holmes’ hands jerked spasmodically. I watched his over-bright eyes flick around the room. “You said you had come to take me home,” he said, petulantly. “I should like to leave immediately.”

“Perhaps in a day or two, if you will but rest and take nourishment; I would prefer to have you a bit stronger before we travel.”

“Then I will follow your prescription, doctor.” Heavy lids drooped to cover his eyes. “Close the shutters before you go.”

His breathing became deep and regular. I patted his shoulder, and got up to close the shutters and take my leave. I paused on my way out and removed the bottle of cocaine solution from the second drawer of the chest. It was still a quarter full. The drinking glass shattered against the door as I pulled it shut behind me. I returned to the balcony, disposed of the contents of the bottle in a convenient pot of dead geraniums and rang for the porter to remove the broken glass.

 

 

_*From the “Reigate Squires” by Arthur Conan Doyle. 1893 (The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes)_


	2. Chapter 2

Returning to the balcony, I poured a glass of wine and settled down to peruse an English newspaper which I had purchased from the newsstand in the train station. The lead article referred to Holmes’ case. It disclosed if that monster had succeeded in inflating the stock of South Asian securities, particularly that of the Netherlands-Sumatra Company, the failure of this one company alone would have evicted widows from their homes and stolen the bread from the mouths of orphans and had a destabilizing effect on the governments of several Asian countries. It was appalling to reflect on so unprincipled a mind which, without a single regret, could execute so heinous a plot.

I admit the intricacies of international finance are baffling to me and Holmes was correct; the difficulties of the case were beyond my comprehension. But, even as the depth of my respect for Holmes increased, I felt a spurt of anger toward him. This was unfair but it was outrageous to me that the price should have been paid with his body.

Happily, the sharp smell of _charcuterie_ and the yeasty scent of fresh baked bread wafted to my balcony. The ladies of Lyons, doing their mid-day shopping, strolled along the cobbles below me. I admired their brightly colored dresses and gaily flowered hats and their voices fell musically on my ear. I considered the last few dreary weeks in London and, on an impulse, tossed the paper aside. Knowing what demands the next few days would bring upon my time, then and there I determined to see what I could of this ancient beautiful city.

Before leaving the apartment, I made sure to look in on Holmes. His parted lips, and the wall-rattling snores they were emitting, assured me that he was deeply asleep, and would be for some time.

I paused at the desk to speak with the concierge, who had told me earlier that his name was Wyncote.

As Lyons is known for its hills, I questioned him if there were a suitable walk that would spare my injured leg, and yet allow me to see something of the city.

He informed me that there was a funicular train that would carry me to the top of the Fourvière Hill. From there I would have a spectacular view of the old city, and the opportunity to inspect the new basilica, if I cared to exert myself. As the station was only two blocks from the hotel and, Wyncote assured me, the trains ran every five minutes, this program suited me exactly.

What a pleasure to leave overcoat and muffler behind and stroll out in the sun. The cobblestones beneath my feet were uneven but I took my time, glancing in shop windows, and admiring the ornate iron gates of the doorways I passed.

To my delight, one of these gates turned out to be the entrance to one of the famous _traboules_ of Lyons. These picturesque walkways, built to enable the silk merchants of Lyons to carry their wares safely out of the weather, pass straight down to the river through the medieval homes and courtyards.

I could not resist entering. It took me out of my way, but this portion of the tunnel was not long; I could see sunlight and a garden at the far end and decided to explore at least that far. I stopped after few steps, though, realizing that the sharply inclined stones, worn as they were by countless boots, were even more of a risk than the street.

That was when I discovered evidence of a less than salubrious use for the _traboules_ : one that could not be mentioned in guidebooks.

It was quite dark, in contrast to the brilliant sunlight outside, but my eyes were adjusting rapidly. In front of me were two shadowed figures, one bent over the other. I could hear the deep animal grunting _in mutual_.

Face flaming, I backed away in disgust. Naiveté is a luxury an army doctor cannot afford. Of course the _traboules_ would be convenient places of assignation with prostitutes.

I determined not to let the incident spoil my day.

The little funicular car carried me to the top of the Fourvière and Wyncote was correct as to the spectacular view to be obtained from there. The sharp crest of the hill, and the slopes immediately below it, were covered in parkland. I saw the green crowns of trees and then the stepped roofs of the old city, tiled in umber, ocher, and sienna. There was the confluence of the Saone and the Rhone beyond, their green streams still conveying barges of goods north and south, as they have since time immemorial. The entire Rhone-Saone valley was before my eyes, all the way to the snowy peaks of the Alps in the distance.

The basilica, a sugary confection of white marble, was in its final stages of construction. To me it seemed out of place amid such ancient surroundings, and it was already a tourist attraction, with all the evils attendant on such a designation.

Resisting the lures of a flock of greasy tour guides to show me inside, I purchased a paper cone of lemon sorbet from a hokey-pokey vendor for a few centimes, and set out on a zigzag path through the trees. I had an inexpressible urge to be as far from the works of men as possible.

I did not intend to go far, but the earthen path was soft beneath my boots, and each new prospect of nature it disclosed so peaceful and attractive, that I had gone some distance before I came upon the weathered blocks of an ancient wall. Here I sat down to finish my ice and was surprised to see men laboring in the raw earth below.

I supposed I was looking into the foundation of another building site. But realized my mistake upon studying the egg shaped depression and the peculiar pattern of the pits from which gangs of tanned, half- naked laborers lifted baskets of dirt. There were two men in shirtsleeves directing them in sifting through the dirt carefully; I was overlooking an archaeological excavation. I recalled that, in addition to its medieval past, Lyons had older, Roman, associations.

Even as I watched, there was a burst of shouting from the pit highest on the hill, nearest my path. Everyone, including the two whom, from their dress, I took to be the archaeologists in charge of the dig, ran toward it. All gathered around the pit, chattering excitedly, and calling down to the men in the hole.

I stayed on my perch, consumed with curiosity, as the sun heated my stone seat, and workmen carried ropes, sawhorses, and boards to the edge of the pit. Sweat gleamed on their arms and shoulders as they worked diligently to set up a platform. I removed my coat and folded it beside me. I wished I could have done the same with my waistcoat. (I settled for rolling the cuffs of my shirt up over my forearms.)

I watched the infinite care with which a crusted lump was raised from the pit and placed on the platform. A man with a tripod arrived and set up a camera to record the occasion, as one of the experts worked away with a soft brush. Shortly the head of some long-dead, bearded emperor was exposed to the light. Who was it I wondered—Hadrian, Marcus Aurelius, Julian…? How long had those blind eyes lain hidden from the sun?

As I wondered, I found I had loosened my tie and was stroking the damp skin of neck and collar-bone.

Brought back to a sense of time, and my surroundings, I regretfully gathered up my coat and hat, and hurried back along the path whence I had come.


	3. Chapter 3

When I walked into to the lobby of the Hotel Dulong, Wyncote was behind the desk, sorting the afternoon mail into pigeon-holes. He informed me that a daybed had been installed in the sitting room, as I had requested, and that he ‘’oped’ I’d not found my walk too tiring.’ I said I had had a charming walk and the view everything that was promised. He then tipped his head toward a side lounge and said there were ‘a couple o’ Peelers waitin’ to ’ave a word’.

These two representatives of the Sûreté were a middle-aged mustachioed individual of Mediterranean type and a smart keen-faced young fellow in uniform. Both of them stood as I entered.

“I was informed you wished to speak with me,” said I. “My name is Watson.”

At this, the elder stepped forward. “Is it possible,” he said, “that you are the Dr. Watson who is the chronicler of Sherlock Holmes?”

“I have that honor,” said I. He introduced himself as Inspector Bertrand. Upon hearing this, I seized his hand and gripped it warmly. “Then I owe you the most profound gratitude for sending that telegram to Baker Street.”

“ _Mais no!_ Doctor,” Inspector Bertrand said, clasping my hand in both of his. “The gratitude, it is all on mine,” he said. “Working with Sherlock Holmes, it has been the greatest privilege of my career and, now, to meet his chronicler…” I will spare the reader my blushes.

Inspector Bertrand understood perfectly that Holmes was in a shocking way, but his principle concern was that the mountain of evidence as yet in Holmes’ possession be secured. Between us, we arranged to have it removed first thing in the morning. Bertrand said that he would bring the necessary documents of transfer himself.

I saw the Inspector and his colleague out and stopped at the desk to tell Wyncote what he could expect in the morning. As if I had any doubt that the porters and chambermaids weren’t the only members of the Hotel Dulong’s staff anticipating our departure, Wyncote reverted to Gallic enthusiasm; he clasped his hands together, expressed himself delighted to hear it and stated that everything in his power would be done to expedite the transfer.

Thus freed from a portion of the burden of responsibility, I was about to step into the lift when Wyncote recalled that, while I had been in the lounge speaking with Bertrand, a package had arrived for Holmes. He handed over a small box wrapped in brown paper with an apothecary’s mark on the label. He said he hoped ‘Mr. ’Olmes ’ad not been disturbed’ by the installation of the daybed.

I said I hoped not as well, but, as I slipped the package into my coat pocket, I had not the slightest doubt of what it contained.

I was determined to dispose of it in the same flower pot I’d made use of earlier and meant to do so immediately, but Holmes thwarted my intention. As my key tripped the lock, I heard him saying, urgently, “Did you bring it?”

“Bring what?” I said, and pushed the door open.

Holmes, in a dressing gown over his nightshirt, was stretched out upon the day bed. Though the expression of chagrin on his face was comical, it was appalling to see the heightened pallor of his skin and the deep purple shadows in the hollows of his eyes. “You should not be out of bed,” I said, severely.

“I’m expecting an important delivery,” he said.

“Something to do with the case?” I said.

“Of course!”

“Then, I expect the porter will bring it up as soon as it arrives. In the meantime, let’s have a pot of coffee.” I said, reaching for the bell. “Would you like a pot of coffee?”

“No.” Holmes snapped.

“Some dinner, then? A nice chop and a salad.”

“I’m not hungry.” As I hung my hat on the coat tree his expression changed from vexation to a scowl. “Where have you been?”

“I’ve never been to Lyons, you know. I went for a walk.”

“Obviously. The question is where does a man with an injured leg walk in this city of steep hills?” Holmes cocked his head and studied me. Aware of the weight pulling my pocket, I kept my kept my arm close to my side to hide it. “Let’s see… Ah! The Fourvière. Of course. You couldn’t walk all the way; you took the funicular and then strolled about at your leisure.”

“A hit, a palpable hit,” I said. “Ah, that must the porter at the door. Perhaps he’s brought your package.” Holmes eye’s narrowed and I could feel them on me the entire time I was speaking with the porter.

When the door was again shut closed, he continued, as if there had been no interruption, “Compared to gloomy London, you enjoyed the warmth. You stopped, at one point, and stayed for some time. You took off your hat and coat and set them by and then you rolled your shirtsleeves up.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“You were winter pale; now, you’ve a touch of sun on your forehead. There’s a smudge of dirt on your left sleeve. One of your cufflinks is in backwards; it wasn’t earlier. Your loosened you tie, as well. Although, you tightened it again, it isn’t quite covering one undone button. If I didn’t know better, Watson, I’d suspect you of tripping the primrose path of dalliance…” As soon as he said it, I saw in my mind’s eye the gleaming muscular backs of the workmen in the pits and the blood rose to my face. Holmes saw and cried, “My God! You have been!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Holmes,” I said, and crossed my arms. “Such an insinuation is unworthy of you. I feel guilty because I left you alone. I shouldn’t have done that. There, I’ve admitted it! Stop trying to cause me to lose my temper.”

Holmes pounced. “What’s that in your pocket?”

“Nothing,” I said, and fled to the balcony.

I did this partially because, with Holmes sprawled on the daybed, there was simply no place to sit, no surface that wasn’t covered with paper, and partially to escape the force of his glare.

“Inspector Bertrand will be by to pick up this mess in the morning,” I called.

“I know you have it,” Holmes shouted back.

“Then I hope you haven’t tipped the porter, yet.”

“Prevaricate as much as you like. This is not the end!”

I picked up my abandoned newspaper and opened it with a snap. “Fine!”

“I will not give up!”

I, who knew his every mood and manner, did not doubt him for an instant.

“I look forward to it!” said I.


	4. Chapter 4

A headline on the second page trumpeted the defense pact that had recently been negotiated between Russia and Serbia. Another day I would have conned the article with great interest, and discussed the implications of such a treaty with Holmes. Today the words were black spots, dancing meaninglessly in front of my eyes.

As always when I found Holmes had outfoxed me, I couldn’t help thinking about that strange mind and wondering exactly what it was he had seen that had given me away. Had I looked too quickly away when referring to the package?  Had I held my arm too awkwardly? Had my stance been too rigid? Whatever my mistake, clearly Homes’ powers of observation were unimpaired. But what of his skill in manipulating me so that I revealed the location of the very thing he wanted? Was that Holmes’ true genius at work, or merely the sly cunning of the drug addict? An addict is but a drooling idiot, unworthy of respect, but lying is not the part of a friend, or of a man’s doctor, and I resented being brought to such a pass.

These bitter thoughts were interrupted when Holmes called out to me, saying, “I’m going back to bed.”

“Good,” I said, coldly.

“I need help.”

“Call your friend the porter.”

“I can’t reach the bell.”

“You got yourself out there; you can get yourself back,”

There was silence. Then, pitifully, I heard him say, “Watson, I need you.”

I cannot begin to tell you how those three words, from such a proud man, elated me. For Holmes to recognize a limitation! To me this was evidence that he was not irretrievably in thrall to the drug. Flinging the paper down, I leapt to my feet and ran into the sitting room.

I was just in time to catch him in my arms, as his strength failed. Holmes had been attempting to stand. I pulled his arm over my shoulder and supported him, step by step, into the bedroom. His breath, coming in little gasps and moans, told me what an effort it was for him to walk even that short distance.

He sank into the featherbed with a sigh; I sank beside him and let his head rest on my shoulder. The bony protuberances of his ribs and hip pressed against me, and, as before, it was a visceral shock to feel how slender and frail he had become. And, I confess, here and now, that his natural, masculine perfume has always been absurdly attractive to me. (Were it not so, he would be intolerable to live with.) My arm around his waist was a perfect fit and I could not bring myself to let go. “It hurts me to see you like this,” I admitted.

“I know,” he said. “Yet, you never failed me. I don’t believe you ever will.” He covered my hand with one of his, and what a turmoil of inexpressible emotion that simple gesture aroused. That he could take comfort in my closeness was a privilege and an honor; an impulse to offer my shoulder to him, to lean on forever if he would, surged in my chest. But, the words would not come; it felt as if I would shatter, should I make the attempt.

We rested together in that attitude, until he gave vent to a choking little laugh and sat up. “What a pair we are,” he said, smiling at me fondly.

He then reached under my tie and buttoned that single undone button which I confess I had forgotten to do up. I shivered at the touch of his fingertips on my skin.

“There,” he patted my tie into place, “all ship-shape and Bristol fashion.” And then he grew serious. “Watson,” said he, “I understand you’ve only my good at heart. I know it very well, and you shall have your way, my friend, but, please, for now…” I understood; his indomitable spirit could only be mortified by physical weakness; he wished me to leave.

But, as I exited the bedroom, I realized the pocket of my coat was lighter, by the weight of one small package. A momentary glance at the mantle confirmed my apprehension. From among the litter of pipes, pipe cleaners, tobacco pouches, pens, and other debris on its marble surface, the tortoiseshell case was missing. I expected it had not been there for some time, either.

Played! I had been played again, by the master!  It was now my turn to feel completely mortified and I was tempted to storm back and demand to know what he thought he was doing.

A moment’s reflection convinced me that would not have been a profitable course of action.

Besides, as Mrs. Hudson is wont to say, ‘there are more ways to skin a cat than by buttering him with parsnips.’

I did march, then, back into the bedroom, and I did not imagine the slight start of his hand, drawing back from the drawer of the nightstand.

“My dear fellow,” said I. “What was I thinking? I neglected you shabbily, earlier. It’s obvious you are even more exhausted than I realized and I cannot, in good conscience, leave you alone now. Not, until I am perfectly satisfied as to your condition. Let me help you with that dressing gown.”

“Watson, I assure you, I’m perfectly capable…”

“You are not!” I bore down upon him and had the gown off in a twinkling. I ran my hands over the satin lined pockets as I hung it in the armoire. They were empty.

Holmes looked at me with venomous eyes.

“You needn’t think you’re so clever.”

“I’ve no delusions on that head,” said I. “But if you think I’m going to stand by and watch you kill yourself, without making a push to prevent it, you have gravely mistaken your man. Under the covers with you. Dinner will be up shortly.”

“Nanny,” he hissed, as I tucked him in bed for the second time that day.

“Indeed, a sick man is a child, and so I will treat you. Whether you like it or not.”

“Then close the shutters.”

“No.”

There was a stack of books on the nightstand. I picked up the one on top and moved the chair in which I had sat earlier to a position where I could watch Holmes’ face. (Should he sleep, it might provide me with the opportunity to search the bed for the key I knew he had palmed.)

He closed his eyes and turned his face from me; I settled down to read; unfortunately, the book I had blindly chosen was Gross, ‘On Manual Strangulation.’


	5. Chapter 5

Holmes had turned his back to me. Occasionally he thrashed restlessly under the bedclothes, or gave a kick.

A more thorough inspection of the stack on the nightstand proved to my satisfaction that I was not going to able to loose myself in a book. Neither ‘Scottish Jurisprudence,’ nor Bertillon’s _Les Signalments Athrópometriques,_ was likely to be better distraction from present worry than the Gross, although, there was small pamphlet on the ‘Black Formosa Corruption,’ with a note jotted in Holmes’ handwriting on the title page: _Poppycock!_

I thought how typical of Holmes to have ransacked the used bookstalls of the city. How insatiable he was for any knowledge, no matter how esoteric, that would add to the store he considered useful in his work. I was sure it was that appetite which must have inspired his first experiments with drugs.

The sun now lay in the west and the room was filled with gold light. As I sat down, he sighed and turned away from the window, burrowing into the pillows until his face was almost covered. My dearest friend, my improvident bee: greedy in so many ways—for food, for music, for sensation—but impossible not to admire.

I wanted him to open his eyes, to laugh at me and say, “I was just teasing, Watson. Shall it be the Royale tonight, or that new fish-stall in Whitechapel?”

Most men are capable of filtering out the cry of a newsboy hawking the latest edition in the street, the cursing of the hackney driver below his window, or the deliveries man at the door; not Holmes. His was a mind inclined by nature, to observe everything, no matter how petty, and trained by necessity, to analyze everything, no matter how inconsequential. It was his genius to have invented a profession that allowed him to exploit those gifts to their fullest. Work provided the structure he needed to regulate a constant bombardment of trivialities. When he was on a case, they were the fuel that fed his fire. One saw it in the burning intensity of his eyes.

The consequential evil occurred when the case was done and the structure collapsed. Between cases, he was in agony; the evidence lay in his dull, sunken eyes and lines growing deeper around his mouth. Then he resorted to cocaine; it provided the illusion of that structure.

To all appearance Holmes was asleep, but there was a deep crease between his eyes, and a twist of the counterpane clutched in one hand. A new case was what he needed; there might be one waiting back in Baker Street, but here and now…?

Recalled to myself, I realized I was still holding the pamphlet. I returned it to the top of the stack on the nightstand. The green cover of Bertillon’s book was the next one down. Through my association with Holmes, I was familiar with his methods and knew they were based on Lombroso’s dictates that physiognomy can, to a high degree of certainty, testify to the presence of moral imbecility.

Last summer, I had been present at a spirited discussion between Holmes and Inspector Lestrade occasioned by the arrest, and subsequent conviction, of the infamous Dr. Scopal for the poisoning of his wife, the dancehall singer Cora Belle.

Lestrade had claimed to see in Scopal’s drooping left eye, loose mouth, weak chin and general lack of manliness, sure characteristics of a poisoner. ‘Nonsense,’ Holmes had cried, “You may as well claim that curly hair, gray eyes, a dimpled chin and a general inclination to prissiness invariably indicate a bugger.” “Do they, by God?” Lestrade had exclaimed. “I don’t know,” Holmes said, “I just described Watson here.” Whereupon, Lestrade had given vent to a barking laugh.

“You’re a pip, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade had said, but I hadn’t found it particularly amusing. I recall Holmes responded to my scowl with a touch of fingers to his lip and blowing a kiss in my direction.

That afternoon in Lyons, unable to settle into reading, my mind pursued its own vagrant ways. I was haunted by the memory. I studied Holmes’ face. Without a doubt, his was the forehead of a genius. But was it possible that the slight lack of symmetry in his nose, or those particularly large orbits, or that precise determination of his jaw indicated that he was, inevitably, a slave to drugs?

Even as the thought formed, I rejected it; if it were true, every man in England with a strong chin and broken nose was at risk of becoming an opium eater.

I heard someone moving about in the sitting room and went to investigate.

It was not a porter, but a chambermaid, setting a laden tray on top of a stack of ledgers.

As I watched, she, unaware of being observed, took a tiny mauve colored envelope from her pocket and slipped it under the teapot. She gave a guilty start upon turning and perceiving me in the doorway.

“ _Merci,_ ” said I, frowning. “That will be all.”

“ _Ooiwee, Monsieur._ ”

She dropped a curtsy and fled

When I returned to the bedroom, Holmes was awake and leaning up on an elbow.

“I have been uncharitable to the porter,” said I. “I should have guessed it was the French maid who served your turn.”

“Really, Watson, anyone could tell from her ‛o’s that the young lady is from Yarmouth.” Holmes threw himself down. “I cannot help it if I bring out the maternal instinct in women.”

“I suspect that ‘mother’ is _not_ the relationship she has in mind.”

“Perhaps not directly.” He gave a fleeting smile to the ceiling. “I’m bored.”

“If you’re tired of pretending to sleep would you care for tea? Since she’s brought it…”

“Later, if you don’t mind. I’m not hungry.” He sighed. “Help me with the pillows, will you? I want to sit up.”

This I was willing to do. After all, there was nothing left in my pocket for him to steal. Turn-around being fair play, it would give me a chance to search the pillows for the key.

As to what happened next…

I must pause.

A doctor does not shrink from the truth of the human condition. Yet, as I have no way of knowing who may read this in future, I will issue a general caveat: what I write next is for the eyes of _serious scholars only_. These pages should be kept strictly from the eyes of women, minor children and servants.

I did not find the key but, after I straightened the pillows, Holmes leaned back and I caught a whiff of his body. As I have said, that day in Lyons was warm and Holmes had not been well. Despite the wash I had given him earlier, that particular smoke and earthy saltiness was stronger than usual. The effect upon me was sudden and profound. Instead of disgust, a rush of desire washed through me. The impact of which was so powerful I went weak at the knees. I folded upon the edge of the mattress and, as if in a dream, saw myself place a trembling hand on Holmes’ forehead.

That touch was a revelation.

To my horror, I realized that I wanted to embrace him, and not in a chaste, or brotherly fashion, either. The powerful throbbing of the _membrum virile_ confirmed it. I’m a doctor, not a fool; I knew the name of that desire. I knew the Latin for all the unnatural acts it inspires; I knew the opprobrium attached to all.

I jerked my hand from Holmes’ forehead. (It hardly mattered, my fingers were like ice.) Holmes snatched it and clasped it between the two of his. “My dear fellow,” he said. “I cannot allow you run off to your uncle’s rubber plantation in Sumatra.”

“W-what are you talking about, Holmes,” said I. “I-I don’t have an uncle in Sumatra.”

“Then forget Sumatra. Neither may you join the Foreign Legion, immigrate to Australia, or pan for gold in America. Oh, Lord, perish the thought! Don’t even think of acting on any other impractical plot that may presently hatch in that brain of yours!”

“Holmes, you can’t possibly know what…”

“Watson! How can I possibly _not_ know? In the last few moments I have watched your eyes skip from that dead rubber plant in the corner; to the street outside, where the building across the way displays the flag of French Algeria flapping on a pole; to the chest of drawers, on which rests my gold and black opal tiepin; to the armoire with a carpetbag on the floor inside. And, even as I speak, your left hand is reaching for the breast pocket concealing your passport! Tell me what have I missed?”

As ever, his acuity was mortifying. I tried to recover my hand; he retained it. There was a framed steel engraving over the bed. It was the ‘The Awakening Conscience.’ I fixed my eyes resolutely upon it, convinced there was no way he could know the reason for my impulse to fly.

“Watson,” Holmes said. “Cease staring at that piece of artistic pabulum, and _talk to me_.”

“I must remove myself from Baker Street immediately,” said I. “I cannot in good conscience remain, as long as you persist taking cocaine.”

“You’d deprive a sick man of the services of his doctor?” Holmes appealed to the nurturing principle.

“I would an addict of his supply!” I said. Holmes shrugged. “Does nothing prick that bubble of conceit?

“No. But, it’s about time someone lanced that boil of self-pity you’re nursing.”

“You arrogant, patronizing, pompous, smug, selfish…!” I ran out of adjectives, and found myself staring at my hand that he was clasping tightly to his breast. “Holmes, you cannot possibly know…”

“That you love me?”

“Oh.” I had forgotten with whom I was dealing. From myself, I could keep a secret; never from him. “How long have you suspected?”

“At least, as long as I have felt that way about you. I believe sympathetic feelings do resonate between people.”

“You’re not revolted?”

“Your naïveté is charming. For the last six months, I’ve hardly been able to keep my hands off of you.”

“You said nothing.”

“My dear, you’re not a case for me to crack. I have principles!”

I couldn’t help laughing, even as a flood of tears drenched my cheeks.

“What happens next?” I said.

“I don’t know,” Holmes said. He looked thoughtfully at me. “Let us consider an experiment. I, for example, have an urge to discover what happens if I blow in your palm, like so…” He took my hand and blew softly into the cupped palm. His breath was hot; a thrill ran up my spine. His eyes, black and burning under the fringe of his lashes, recorded my slightest reaction. “I feel you shiver, and I wonder what will happen if…” I gaped in utter helplessness as he traced my thumb to the very tip. “You,” he said, “will tell me what happens next.”

“I-I don’t know…” I said.

“You are being particularly obtuse, Watson. I kiss you.” He released my hand, pulled my head down, and did. His lips were unexpectedly tender. “Does that give you a clue?” he said.

Could I have gone on pretending to misunderstand? No. I kissed him back, and discovered that I had been entirely mistaken in thinking I’d nothing left for him to steal.

Eagerly our lips engaged, and the appetite that embarrassment had banked burst into flame. I gave a soft cry. His tongue, salted with my own tears, thrust into my mouth; that one barrier breached broke all, stripping a life-time of defenses from the margins of my body. I flung myself on top of him and I felt his leg plunging between mine, climaxed in an effervescence of blind lust. He clasped me tight. It felt as if my whole self were pouring out me and into him.

And then it was over.

Holmes pushed me off of him. He slipped out of bed.

I lay on my back and watched him pull his nightshirt over his head. There was a wet spot in the middle of the striped cotton.

Drained and limp, I became aware of the polluting wetness that was cooling between my own legs and was filled with disgust. Who, but a monster, would hump a man’s leg like a dog?

I turned over and tried to crawl off of the bed.

Holmes pinned me beneath him. I’d forgotten his quickness; that unbelievable strength. “I thought we agreed you weren’t going anywhere.”

“I agreed to no such thing!” I said, trying to pull off the hand that was unknotting my tie. “Holmes! Stop that! Don’t!”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Watson,” Holmes said, as the tie slipped from around my neck. “We’re not enacting East Lynn. If you can bring yourself to the bar of self-knowledge; at least stay there long enough to obtain the benefit of judgment.”

As he spoke those uncompromising words, he flexed his hips and pressed his weight upon my arse. He did it again and set the bedsprings rocking. The movement brought such electrifying pleasure, I submitted. I blame the motion, and I blame his mouth, and I blame the clever hands that undressed me. I blame the shear genius of the man, because, he wasted no time. Jacket, braces, trousers, garters, stockings, and flannel combination were all tossed indiscriminately on the floor.

He turned me and touched my naked clay.

And, as clay in the hands of a master potter, I was transformed by his regard.

If there is a joint or crevice of my body that he did not explore that day, I do not recollect it. He stroked my back and belly. His tongue was in my ears. His fingers tweaked my nipples. He turned me and the stubble of his beard scraped my spine, as he kissed his way to the base of it. He chewed my hips and bit the backs of my thighs. My sac was weighed in the cup in his hand. Turned again, he lifted my knees and nosed the hollows. My feet—to this day, I can feel each separate sucking of the toe in his mouth, and the earthy taste when he bent and kissed me after.

He spread me wide and looked at me. My prick. My pole. The object of Holmes’ attention was matched with his, as thick and straight as a church candle. We overflowed together. It dripped over his hand. He licked his fingers. He licked me. And, I, open mouthed, could not look away from his balls dangling below the heavy hooded shaft. I was mesmerized. I wanted to taste them. I wanted…I could not say what I wanted; as much as I was lost to any sense of human decency, I was wordless. I was helpless, until I recalled those shadowed forms in the _traboule_. I flopped on my belly and lifted my arse like the punk against the wall, straining for it.

Drops of sweat pattered on my back as he bent and butted me behind. I knew there would be painful but, oh, I wanted him to take me. But when I felt the soft touch of his tongue between my buttocks, I died, crying, and soaked the sheets beneath me.

He gathered me up in his arms, cradling me and covering us both with the bedclothes. His breathing was harsh in my ear and I felt a somewhat distant pang of guilt. “Holmes,” I said. “Are you all right? You haven't overerted yourself?”

“Never better, Watson.” Holmes chuckled softly. “Never better.”

Still, all things considered, only a fool would have fallen asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

I awoke in a state of confusion; unsure of where I was; in a body, it seemed certain, could not be mine, marked, as it was, by a set of sensations that mine had never experienced.

The sun had gone down while I’d slept and, although the gas was lit, it had been turned low. The room was in shadows. It took the bulk of the armoire against the wall to remind me that I was in Lyons.

Among the unusual sensations I experienced on waking, not the least were the grip of the arm encircling my waist, and the deep baritone buzz tickling my ear. But the greatest was the sudden physical recollection of that flickering tongue probing the cheeks of my arse. That impression of profound intimacy was so direct and immediate that my breathing faltered.   

“Mmmm…” Holmes murmured, alerted by the change in rhythm. “Awake…?” His hand caressed my belly. “Yes,” he said. “I see you are.”

It took only a few strokes for the snatchpurse to rob me blind, again.

“My God!” I panted, conflicted by so many irreconcilable emotions, it was impossible to think. “Give me time! An hour, a day, a week to collect myself.”

“I considered that, but all possible outcomes indicate it would be to no one’s advantage.”

“Yours, you mean,” I said, bitterly. “And it was you who referred to the benefit of judgment.”

“So I did. And judgment is best arrived at by experience.”

“Exactly!” said I. “As a doctor, I have too much experience of mankind; as man, I have too little experience of…other men.”

“Easily rectified.” Holmes delivered a sharp nip to my shoulder.

“What-What do you suggest?”

“Dinner.” Holmes yawned. “The tea is cold, by now, the chop undoubtedly congealed, and the salad wilted. Until I’ve had something to eat, I won’t be able to give the portion of your anatomy that you’re trying to force into my lap the kind of attention it deserves.”

“That is so bloody typical!” I cried. “You’ve a friend in a state of crisis that will shape the very course of his existence, not to mention his moral stance with respect to the rest of the world, and the only thing that concerns you is your appetite!”

“What else would I be concerned with? I’m famished; the café at end of the block is open.” He flexed himself, prodding me. “What do you say?”

I fully intended to tell Holmes, in no uncertain terms, what a selfish clot he was, when my eye was caught by the gleam of a little silver key on the corner of the nightstand.

I ceased struggling against Holmes’ arm, picked it up, and inserted it into to the lock in the drawer. Both the tortoiseshell case and the package from the apothecary lay inside; the package was unopened.

Thoughtfully, I shut the drawer, and locked it, gradually becoming aware I’d ignored a steady stream of Holmes’ chatter. “I’m sorry…?”

“I said do you always give that puling little cry when you squirt?”

“I-I don’t know.”

Holmes gave another gusty yawn against the back of my neck. “Perhaps none of your other partners thought to mention it.”

That was annoying enough, but I could that feel he’d begun fingering himself. “All of my other partners have better manners than you do, and, by the way, you snore like a steam engine.”

“I find that unbelievable,” Holmes said.

I set the key on the nightstand and turned to tell him it was so.

Holmes stopped me by putting his finger to my lips. I inhaled the pungent musk that perfumed it and, for the second time in as many minutes, lost my train of thought. I watched speechless as he took the hand in which I still held the key, folded my fingers around it, and kissed them, as if sealing a pact. “I agree,” he said.

“Agree to what?” said I.

“That you need more experience. And, clearly, as soon as possible if I’m to get my dinner at a reasonable hour.”

“What do you have in mind?” I said, mistrusting the devil of mischief I could perceive in his eyes.

I could feel Holmes’ prick nudging my thigh, like an animal seeking a burrow. It left trails of moisture on my skin as he sat up against the headboard.

“I cannot believe that you’re not as hungry as I am,” he complained.

“I’d a lemon ice, when I was out.”

“You didn’t bring me any.” Holmes pouted.

“It would have melted.”

“Then you’ll just have to make it up to me.”

“How?”

“Since you ask, and the subject’s come up; apply your mouth to it,” he said, lifting the covers, and pushing me under. “Follow your instincts, my dear. Believe me, I’ll tell you, if you go wrong.”

It is undoubtedly revealing too much, when I say that, on finding myself suddenly the earthy darkness, I went searching for prey.

The shaft of Holmes’ prick brushed my cheek. My mouth closed over the blunt knobbed head and my first response to the unexpected fullness in my throat was to choke. The shaft gave a little jump. One of Holmes’ hands clamped firmly onto the back of my head.

“’Ware teeth, love,” he said, the justice of which I acknowledged by backing off, and trying again, more slowly.

Gradually, intrigued by the complex of salt-sea taste and velvet skin, I learned to accommodate his proportion, and discovered my natural response to it was to suck. Upon hearing Holmes’ gasps of pleasure, I tried to see what else I could provoke from him.

Guided, as I was, by a degree of intimacy with the professional women of three continents, (Holmes, himself, has admitted that the fair sex is my department.)  I discovered that circling my tongue beneath the rim of his little helmet, caused him to tense and gasp harder. I repeated the motion. I repeated it steadily, until he sounded as if he were in pain. Then I stopped and poked my tongue into the eye, giving my attention to the particularly delicate place at the back where the rim curved up.

Holmes cried as the shaft gave several soft pulses in my mouth, and released a briny emission. As I swallowed, I too, I admit it, had an emission, and that increased the sense of completion, and of peace that came over me, as I lay there embraced by his thighs, holding the softening pole in my mouth.

Holmes uncovered my face and stroked my cheek.

“Watson,” he said, and his voice was dreamy. “I believe you have an aptitude for this.”

“It’s certainly no worse than a taste for oysters,” I said.

_Three days later we were back in Baker Street together…*_

_The End  
_ February 14, 2012

**Author's Note:**

> The following must be thanked: megankent for showing me where I'd gone afield in the course of writing, tryfanstone for Britpicking, cheering, and asking excellent questions, and unovis for her keen editorial eye. All had substantial input into the final product.


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